


Side Effects

by elscorcho



Series: Triple Threat [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: M/M, Peter is of age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-03-17 09:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13656471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elscorcho/pseuds/elscorcho
Summary: “How did you know I was in the mood for a threesome?” Eyebrows waggle away beneath his red mask. “Are you finally accessing me, telepathically? Should have bought me dinner first, Nathan.”Cable responds with a customary grunt.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1   
  


Cable rotates his gleaming metal shoulder like a batter up to the plate. Heavy boots crunch glass, sidestep an overturned shelf. He rounds a fold-out chair and scrapes it forward, settling in.

  


Across from him sits a sniveling cretin, duct taped at mocking angles, warming up more venomous denials in his blood-filled mouth. But instead of a second helping of wallops, he’s offered something much worse.

  


“Never been great at colors,” Cable admits, swishing a murky vial between his fingertips. “Like… toxic waste. But if you shake it up, turn it-”

  


He does. And then: “Purple. Huh. What makes it change like that?”

  


The frightening mix is thrust a dangerous inch from the captive’s face.

  


“I’m…not…I just-”

  


“Need to write it down? I think I might have a pen and paper on me….somewhere -” Roaming hands drift to the handle of a futuristic-looking gun at Cable’s hip.

  


A trembling droplet of sweat flees the captive’s temple, his jaw, and throat choking on flimsy entreaties.

  


“Please.” He swallows. “Please, you have  _ no _ idea what that’s capable of-“

  


“Yeah,” Cable drawls. “That’s sort of the point of this whole interrogation thing.” He lowers the specimen, one eye glinting gold, when the door snaps open, noise and flurry shatters the tension. Somehow, Deadpool manages to turn every fight into a comical ruckus straight out of an Errol Flynn pirate ship.

  


“There you are!” His partner in crime skips inside, bolting the lock. He points at the tied up man with a cocked head.

  


“How did you know I was in the mood for a threesome?” Eyebrows waggle away beneath his red mask. “Are you finally _accessing_ _me_ , telepathically? Should have bought me dinner first, Nathan.”

  


Cable responds with a customary grunt.

  


“Just kidding.” Deadpool slides over, pats Cable on the back and admires the scene. “I know if you tap into those powers, you might turn into, like, a refrigerator– hell of a job you did on this room, though...” He whistles.

  


The place has been spectacularly trashed and his partner is squeezed into an absurdly undersized chair, his fleshy arm, smeared with grime and sweat, draped casually across the back and the metal one, the  _ scary _ one, pinching a vial full of something sinister. He’s grilling a greasy-haired, sallow-skinned young man, who grimaces with disgust at Deadpool’s insinuation.

  


Upon closer inspection, the mercenary notes further, a bruised eye and nice fat lip, a blood-streaked chin wobbling at the sight of another muscle bound, weaponized thug joining the party.

  


“The bondage is a nice touch,” he adds, lamely.

  


“ _ Fuck. You _ ,” flies the snarling response, paired with snotty flecks of blood and saliva against his suit.

  


Wade recoils with a delicate hand to his chest. “Relax, Smeagol. You’re not my type,” he assures with a mocking laugh, petting a clammy cheek and smearing behind blackish gore.

  


“It’s like  _ Labyrinth _ out there. Could use a hand,” Wade says, drawing back to regard Cable slyly. “Preferably a big, strong metal one. No wait. First, teleport me to a toilet -“

  


“Grow a pair. I’m not teleporting shit.” Cable jerks his head toward the bound scientist. “Got business here.”

  


Deadpool scratches his head with the barrel of his gun. He crouches, hands on his knees, level with the sneering scientist. “Alright, Hoggle. It’s been a long day for all of us-” He reaches out.

  


The guy jerks violently in his bonds. “Don’t you goddamn touch me-” He thrashes again. “I’m not-“

  


“Um…jeez, this is awkward.” Wade dances in place, muscular thighs squished together. “It’s hard to think of a superhero quip when you  _ really _ have to piss. Sorry!” He aims and fires a clean shot, turns to Cable the same moment the corpse slumps forward.

  


“Alright.” Deadpool slips the gun back in its holster, claps gloved hands together. “So, the John?”

“Asshole!” Cable roars, blood rising in his neck and face (and rapidly pooling around his feet).

  


“Oh boo hoo. This place is crawling with scumbags to interrogate……you’d know that if you weren’t holed away -”

  


“The  _ serum _ -“  

  


“So we’ll find whoever developed the stuff -”

  


“That  _ was _ the developer, you jackass!”

  


“Oh.”

  


Which is how Cable and Deadpool find themselves wandering the streets of New York, pondering this mystery serum, whose properties and origins Wade had just obliterated (along with half the meat of some mastermind’s frontal lobe).  

  


“This shit is a nightmare. Like… top-shelf Hook mixed with Toad Juice - can you imagine if it goes wide…” Cable lays out the situation.

  


“Meh.” Deadpool yawns and stretches. The clatter of the deadly katanas strapped to his back startles an old woman. His eyes follow her as she yelps and hobbles down subway steps. Presently, they’re leaning against the green, railed encasement of the underground transport, deciding their next move.

  


“Need to find a lab,” Cable continues. He drums his fingers against the small, well-packed Igloo cooler curled beneath his arm.  “Analyze…. ”

  


“Googling...it…now…” Deadpool takes out his phone and taps out a search. “There.”

  


Cable leans in for a peek at the glowing display. A video buffers, and out sails the muted wah-wah guitar pedal of seventies jazz.

  


The title screen flashes,  _ “Twink slut spit-roasted by Two Daddies,” _ and Wade admits, “I typed in A-N-A-L, and muscle-memory filled in the rest. Come on, doesn’t this look fun? I promise I’ll be more focused afterw-”

  


Cable swats the phone away.  “Focus  _ now _ .”

  


“It’s called  _ foreshadowing _ ,” Wade defends, silences the device and pockets it reluctantly. “Fine. We hit up the research hospital downtown. I pose as a test subject, break into a lab, kidnap a sexy young lab tech -”

  


Cable stares at him and Wade shrugs. “Some people go to singles bars. I let cute med students fondle my junk, then swipe all the Percocets.”

  


“Alright,” is the best compliment Cable can grunt out, as he prepares to teleport them both to the hospital.

  


“Uhhh…how ‘bout we take the subway?” Wade’s voice is trailing. A young man saunters down the steps and Wade’s line of sight, even with a mask on, is exaggerated, like any second his eyes will rip through like a whistling cartoon wolf. 

  


The mercenary has already hopped the rail before Cable can weigh in. There are cries of alarm as he lands mid-flight, along with his own shout of, “I brainstorm better at lower elevations!”

  


Cable doesn’t bother pointing out that just minutes ago, Wade hadn’t cared a lick about their plan, but sure, whatever, _now he needs to_ _brainstorm_. 

  


In a way, Wade is like a storm, chaotic but not beyond forecast. Cable’s been dragged through enough churning swells of mania to detect the warning signs. He settles into a bench and watches the clouds gather. Wade corners his prey and takes a long, leering inventory, the same way he’d eyed up the mad scientist before sinking a hot bullet into his brain.The last thing Cable notes, before passing his attention to a discarded copy of yesterday’s  _ Daily Bugle _ , is the kid sputtering beneath the brim of his baseball cap as Wade plucks the headphones from his ears.

  


A minute or so later, the kid is shambling off the opposite direction, headphones clicking loosely as he goes, muttering fashionable expletives.

  


Wade joins Cable on the bench with a huff.

  


“I don’t know what that was, but it  _ wasn’t _ music. And  _ terrible  _ grammar…major bonerkiller.” He cranes his neck to the right, where the distant sound of a train clatters toward them. “That our ride?”

  


“F-train. Two more stops,” Cable mutters, flicking newsprint. Wade makes a mild sound of impatience, pulls out his phone, hunches down and tilts the screen for his companion to see, and nudges him sharply. There’s a new video; a young brunette with a coquettish face and Bambi eyes, warming up an audience via wobbly webcam by lubricating a brightly colored sex toy with his mouth.

  


Cable sighs.

  


“…just turn the sound down.”

  


And to his credit, the squelching sounds stop. Never let it be said their partnership lacked compromise.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

 

Peter Parker wiggles his bottom against stiff, orange plastic, trying to reach that delicately curved, elusive spot that will deliver perfect relief.

 

Thanks to an inconsiderate commuter with suffocating cologne, the young hero’s pert ass currently resides along the uncomfortable boundary of two subway seats. On his other side, only marginally better, sprawls a gaudy designer handbag the size of a toddler, containing a glaring ball of fluff, baring pearly little teeth at him.

 

Peter’s knees cradle a stack of school supplies. There’s a pencil clamped between his teeth, his face is stuffed in a thick chemistry book and his brows are dipped in concentration. It’s a sticky-hot Sunday in New York, crawling with pedestrians looking to pack in a day at the beach or an air-conditioned museum. But not Peter. Never Peter. 

 

Normally, he’d be out patrolling as Spider-Man, stopping burglaries, putting out fires or catching rogue air conditioners falling out of windows. Today, he’s working on a project.

 

Mr. Stark indeed “had pull” at M.I.T, got Peter a sweet spot in a satellite summer program to prepare for the real thing, which will be a  _ sure thing _ if he nails this presentation. A Capstone project, which called for a drastic change in lifestyle. Namely, three weeks of spider abstinence, no exceptions. Not even that time Peter ran out of clean underwear, or now, when a faster, less cramped mode of transportation would have been preferable.

 

Even a Target run at the behest of his Aunt for prescription nasal spray is no excuse to dilly-dally. Unfortunately, this uptown location had the only kind she liked, the one that “didn’t burn so much, oh, you’re such a good boy, thank you sweetie!”

 

Otherwise, a simple stroll down the block would have sufficed. He wouldn’t be sitting here sandwiched between every dimension of rude, wondering what sort of delirium compels him to go out every day, risking his neck for these people.

 

Oh, right, because he’s a  _ good boy _ .

 

The man next to him starts barking at his phone. Peter rolls his eyes and slips a hand into the backpack between his feet. Alarms sound when his sensitive fingertips brush paper, loose change, a half-eaten bag of Doritos but notably absent is the kiss of tightly woven, high-tech fiber, every inch the millions it cost to make.

 

He’s glad for the reminder. It’s a necessary instinct, like the sharp lick of heat when you brush against flame that tells you to pull away before a damaging burn sets in. Being without his suit eliminates a good chunk of temptation, that’s for sure.

 

Though, ironically, Peter is beginning to suspect that any focus he may have gained by avoiding conflict on the streets somehow died and came back to haunt him in a different way. A distracting sensory build-up, all jammed up inside his nerves, a sickly-giddy-hunger that’s approaching unbearable.

 

But Peter knows what happens once that suit goes on, and god knows a blistering day like this gets all the crazy ones fired up. He’s too close to the finish line to figure out which kind of distraction is worse.

 

He finds what he’s looking for in his bag; a refurbished e-reader and headphones that are covered in bits of duct tape to seal exposed wire. The robotic overhead announcements are drowned out by these distractions and luckily, having lived in the city his entire life, Peter’s internal clock is impeccable. He’s taken full naps on the subway without missing a stop, so he’s not concerned. Plus,  _ duh _ , he’s Spider-Man.  

 

Bumping along, it’s back to his project. The limbic system, synthetic neurons and abnormal genome mapping, all very fascinating to him as an amateur in the field but what about  _ professionals _ ? To make his research really crackle and pop and more importantly, sound groundbreaking to a group of academic elites was a whole other ballgame. Obviously, if Spider-Man flipped in, warmed up the room with some stunts… no. No! Once again, Peter has to shake temptation, the itch to step aside and let Spider-man take the stage. So he refocuses bleary eyes on the flickering, buggy e-reader screen, but the fears continue to nibble away at his concentration until there’s only nerdy Peter Parker, bumbling on stage, index cards out of place, stuttering and sweating. Mister Stark in the back of the audience, a cold, disappointed specter in Armani, browsing Youtube on his cellphone for a replacement protégé.

 

Some minutes later, in the middle of a nightmare involving a malfunctioning projector catching fire and burning down the entire state of Massachusetts, Peter wakes up, his head is tipped back and a trickle of spit is halfway dried down his cheek. The seats beside him are empty.

 

With no time to ponder when that happened, or how he managed to miss his stop, a cellphone rolls across the train and bumps against his sneaker. He picks it up with a sleepy, wholesome smile that melts like a Popsicle on a sidewalk. 

 

The sight ahead is strange, even by New York standards.  

 

The entire population of the car is crushed uncomfortably at one end, a small crowd of faces pinched with annoyance and unease and they’re staring in his direction.

 

Though his music is still on, suddenly pounding along with his own pulse, Peter is pretty certain there’s a nervous crack in his voice when he asks:

 

“Did someone drop this?”

 

The response is more staring, which is rather unhelpful so he takes it as a cue to follow their line of sight and find out for himself.

 

He wishes he hadn’t.

 

At some point in time, again, alarmingly unclear, someone had slipped into the seat beside him. Someone huge, covered in guns and…reading the newspaper.

 

Then  _ plunk, _ another person fills up space to his right and unlike the first, this figure presses boldly against him, a hard muscled body lounging in red and black leather with a cozy arm draped across the back of Peter’s seat. His eyes are clearly roving and eating Peter up behind his mask.

 

Peter’s been the subject of this focus before,  _ many times _ , but not with this intensity, or maybe it just feels more intense because he doesn’t have a mask on and his abilities, for all intents and purposes, do not exist. 

 

Peter’s headphones are removed and in place of breathy British New Wave is actual, living breath, hot and troubling against his pinkening ear.

 

“Hey, dollface.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

“Um…hi,” Peter greets, amazed and relieved that  _ “Hey, Wade” _ hadn’t casually rolled off his tongue.  

 

Years of teaming up and Spider-Man and Deadpool were still considered a pairing of convenience or coincidence, depending on who you asked. His fellow Avengers usually referred to their patrols as Spider-Man “minding the merc” or took bets on how much webbing was needed to fend off his advances. Then again, Peter wasn’t exactly quick to correct them and admit that Wade was a friend and fun to be around, and he certainly wasn’t going to say that Wade’s crush was flattering and not as unwelcome as everyone assumed it must be. 

 

Cable and Deadpool, maybe a year in? Had begrudging respect, like, in a Mafia kind of way. A  _ reputation _ . Practically their own movie together.

 

The bodies glued to the farthest end of the train were ample evidence of their infamy.

 

Not that Peter was jealous, or anything.

 

He sputters, as Deadpool looms closer, close enough to listen to his music.

 

“The Smiths. Oh, you angsty little thing.”  Wade switches it silent, backs off a few inches, to enjoy the sight of Peter’s agitation.

 

“E-excuse me! Is there something can I do for you?” 

 

Deadpool releases a breathy chuckle, toying with the neckline of Peter’s shirt. “That’s a dangerous thing to go around asking.”

 

Cable, straight to the point, taps the wide spine of the book in Peter’s lap,  _ Understanding the Neurobiology of Addiction _ .

 

“You study this?”

 

“It’s for a project,” Peter says. “Normally, I mean… I’m going to major in physics; minor in robotics, but…” He realizes he’s rambling, providing more information than necessary, and swallows the rest down.

 

“Yeah…I know a fair amount, why?”

 

“My friend and I here work for, uh...” Deadpool begins.

 

“The DEA,” Cable finishes, wishing he could slap the other man.  

 

Peter interrupts, surprising them both.

 

“That’s nice. I’m just a student, though….so,” he offers, hastily, knowing the longer he stays the more opportunities there are to slip up. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really-“

 

The overhead speaker announces their arrival. Passengers hurry out, before the cautionary “stand clear of the closing doors” seals them in again.

 

“That’s my stop-” He stands to leave, school supplies beneath one arm and backpack dangling from the crook of the other. Three steps forward and the knotted, broken strap unfurls. Smack! It hits the ground and in Peter’s moment of hesitation, his bending down to retrieve it, there’s a tug on his jeans and air against his lower back.

 

“Not so fast, cupcake.” Deadpool’s finger is curled around a belt loop and uses it to pitch him back into his seat.

 

A few commuters spare him unhelpful looks of sympathy before they leave.

 

“Ugh…you’ve got to be kidding me.” Peter scowls, thinking he might just retire the webs permanently after this, become a villain, or…whatever the hell Cable and Deadpool are. Their mission sounds commendable, though not beyond a nudge of light intimidation, when needed.

 

Peter can’t help but envy that freedom. To pick and choose and do questionable things because it’s the expedient thing to do, not in deference to what the public thinks (like  _ they’re _ so perfect) or to meet the expectations of a certain billionaire father-figure/employer/idol. Who, by the damn way, spent the entirety of his twenties and thirties hungover and banging anything that moved, before his fairytale epiphany in Afghanistan.

 

Peter, meanwhile, with not much more than a precious year left of his teens, is virginal as snow, missed his own senior prom two months ago and still asks permission to stay out past midnight. Not a drop of alcohol has passed his lips nor has he felt the bite of smoke on his tongue.

His mind hovers around the notion of ignoring what’s prudent and expected. As if urging him to leap on the impulse, a woman, one of the last to get out, whispers harshly to her boyfriend: “Just go! I’m sure Spider-Man will like, do something.”

 

“I certainly hope so!” Deadpool cheers after her. “What do you think he wears in this kind of heat? Red and blue booty shorts and a spider-web crop top, I hope.”

 

Peter’s scowl deepens.

 

_ And, like, maybe he’ll just flip you the bird next time you’re being mugged, lady. How does, like, that sound? _

 

“Hey now, none of that.” Deadpool gives Peter a little shake intended to be encouraging. “A face like that isn’t meant to frown.”

 

The doors close, no additional passengers decided to board, for pretty obvious reasons.  

 

“Oh, that’s rich. A guy in  _ a mask _ is telling me to  _ smile more _ .”

 

Deadpool’s laugh is low and pleased. “Cute. Hand me your wallet.”

 

Peter stares at Deadpool’s downturned, gloved palm, making a grabby gesture.

 

“Oh, so you’re a bad guy,” he says, stupidly placing a protective hand near his left, front pocket.

With the mastery of a seasoned thief, Wade lifts it from him.

 

“What makes you say that?” He twirls it around for effect.

 

“Because you just mugged me, you jerk?”

 

“Nah, just looking for….oh, nice: you’re one punch away from a complimentary grande latte ….one…two… _ three _ library cards? That’s fucking adorable.” He casually leans away from Peter’s small reach as he rifles through, finally locating what he’s after; a form of I.D.

 

“There we go,” he says, passing the card over Peter’s face where both he and Cable can see it, bringing it back and narrating the contents.

 

“Peter Benjamin Parker, eighteen, Intern for Stark Industries….” He squints at the young man. 

 

“You know, you  _ look _ like a Peter.”

 

“Um.” Peter struggles. “Well,  _ you _ don’t look like a  _ Wade _ .”

“Underneath the mask I look like an uncooked meatball, actually. But more to the point…you know who I am?” Wade sounds more flattered than suspicious. “Cape-chaser? Mmm…they don’t call us  _ Enhanced Individuals _ for nothing…or maybe you already know that? If Iron Man’s your sugar daddy…”

 

“He’s not-“ Peter sputters, then hardens. “It’s my business to know who comes and goes through Stark Tower. Including who isn’t  _ allowed _ to come and go.” Peter’s tone suggests his job holds all the importance of a security guard while everything else about him screams mousy secretary, but he realizes this a little too late as Cable’s laugh verifies.

 

The bigger man doesn’t look as distrustful now. Peter’s internship is a fair enough reason for acting so blasé, but he isn’t out of the woods yet; if anything he’s dug a different sort of hole.

 

“I’ll bet you’ve seen it all, huh?” Cable says, and there’s as much loaded in that statement as there are in the weapons decorating his body.

 

“I’ve seen enough, Nathan Summers-” Peter uses his name, as he had with Wade, but the response isn’t quite the same. The glare he’s given shrivels the testicles he thought he had for a second.

 

“I mean…Cable.” And just for good measure, “Sir.”

 

There’s relief in not having to feign ignorance or terror, but what remains is that being aligned with Tony Stark reveals he has a connection, however small, to a billionaire’s laboratory.

 

“If you’re thinking I have access to Mr. Stark’s lab....” he inoculates himself, admitting with a shrug, figuring it’s useless to pretend that Peter Parker could ever look like anyone of importance.

 

“I’m an intern, alright? I sit at a desk. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I even get to fetch stuff.”

 

It’s a difficult statement to challenge, but knowing them, a tied-up-boy-shaped plan B is still in the cards.

 

“Ransom? Yeah, good luck. Mister Stark calls me  _ Paul  _ half the time and my family is broke.”

 

“Oh, god, say ‘Mister’ again,” Wade groans, twirling one of Peter’s tawny curls around his finger and pinching his cheek. “Can we just take him anyway, even if he’s useless?”

 

“I’m not useless!” Peter wriggles away, pride outweighing reason. He knows this is his easy out, if indeed they think he’s useless, then by all means let him uselessly be on his way.

But something compels him to prove himself otherwise. He’s spent too long sitting with a sharp boulder of anxiety strapped to his back, convinced that he’ll fail without Spider-Man to take over the load, and he just can’t stomach that dodging feeling anymore.

 

“Could you maybe….cross-examine, with similar drugs? Is it anything like that weird Eastern European stuff, croco…croc-something.”

 

They reach another stop. A humorous parade of on-second-thoughts step inside and scurry back out.

 

The doors close and it’s a train for three again.

 

“Krocodil, with a K. That’s it,” Peter finishes, much softer than before.

 

In that time, Deadpool’s been thinking and decompressing as well. His laugh is humorless, surprising even Cable who at this point hadn’t been convinced of the other man’s commitment or ability to think of anything beyond getting his dick slippery.

 

“You won’t find this stuff on a  _ Vice documentary _ .” He sounds frustrated as he details their grim objective to Peter.  “Imagine something so vile, it makes its victims  _ crave _ pain and disfigurement, chasing it to the very edge of crippling, semi-consciousness.”

 

Peter’s mouth falls open, horrified.

 

“No  _ way _ ?”

“Not a pretty picture.” Wade clicks his tongue, tapping the portrait on Peter’s ID, which is not unlike Peter’s earnest young face now; open, anxious and a little fearful. Wade can only imagine how scary and exciting Peter’s first day at Stark Industries must have been.

 

“The drug, I mean.This picture is very pretty.”

 

He tips the wallet back inside Peter’s pocket, copping a feel in the process.

 

“You’re obviously a clever kid, so here’s the deal. We need a fresh set of eyes. Make sense of something really terrible and stop the people who are manufacturing it. You know…un-alive them.”

 

Peter cringes. “Leave out that last part and…I might help. Maybe.”

 

“No killing?”

 

Peter purses his lips. Wade scratches his head.

“Brutality doesn’t do it for you? …….Or maybe it’s not brutal  _ enough _ ?”

 

“Gross. No. To all of it.”

 

“Huh. That’s a first.”

 

“I’m not some demented groupie with a death wish. I’m a  _ scientist _ .” Offended, but not unwilling, Peter considers his offer again, realizing (conveniently) that what he wants is rather irrelevant. Instead, it’s his moral obligation to make sure they don’t murder anyone. Or anyone  _ else _ , judging by the fresh blood on Deadpool’s suit.

 

Uh, yeah, that’s it.

 

“Qualitative data won’t yield much information,” Peter admits, because it’s true. “So I can’t promise anything. Is that it, in the cooler there? I’d like to see-”

 

“Not here. Too unstable-“Cable tells him.

 

“Margaret’s,” Deadpool interjects, staring at the boy and Cable knows where things go from here so he just nods and returns to his paper.

 

The conditions are right, winds are picking up and swirling, something menacing is licking up heat and funneling it into the air. Wade, the force of nature and beside him, Cable, the ancient tree, just bending and shifting to ride it out and see the balanced restored.

 

And Peter’s metaphor? He’s a tiny lawn ornament, a patch of well-tended flower buds, that doesn’t stand a chance. He glances between the two, clutches his backpack with wide eyes and tucks a curl behind his ear.

 

“Uh, cool...who’s Margaret?”


	4. Chapter 4

“-so how do we know you’re not a gorgeous spy, planted on the subway to distract us?”

 

Peter, Wade and Cable file into the back office of Hellhouse, formerly  _ Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls _ , and there’s the distinct sound of a bottle smashing against the door after it closes behind them. When they’d arrived, Peter drew a fair amount of interest and their decision to spirit him away from the rum-soaked patrons hadn’t gone over so well.

 

Peter rolls his eyes, runs a finger through a thick layer of dust on a shelf, but he’s smiling when he scans the dingy wood-paneling and kitschy wall hangings. The room looks frozen in the seventies.

“You got me. I hacked the election too.” He picks up a pencil sharpener in the shape of a duck. “Aren’t you supposed to offer me a drink?”

 

Deadpool snatches it from him.

 

“Ah, ah,” he chides, “No weapons.” He makes a stabbing motion using the duck’s beak. “Can’t be too careful when it comes to our safety, right Cable?”

 

Cable grunts from the other end of the room. His back is turned, hands shuffling around the cooler, and he’s listening close, waiting for the inevitable moment when Wade pushes it too far and the kid is nothing but a blur barreling out of the room.

 

“ _ Your _ safety?” Peter sasses, as Wade presses from behind. “You’re both twice my size and covered in weapons…what are you doing?”

 

“A routine pat down.”

 

Cable groans.  _ And there it is. _

 

He turns around, to see Wade grasping Peter’s biceps, appraising the modest, but rock solid muscle beneath.

 

“Nice guns. Packing anything else?” Peter gasps, as Wade pulls him flush, hands creeping down his hips, feeling his thighs, front and back, and squeezing the small mounds of his ass.

 

_ “Relax.”  _ Deadpool’s breath is against his ear. “Have you ever had a cavity search?”

 

“Enough.” Cable interrupts. “Peter, here.”

 

Peter’s eyes widen. He makes a mild sound of protest, and uses Cable’s approach to cover his rattled composure. He pushes away from Deadpool and accepts the vial gingerly.

 

“You said it shifts color sometimes?”

 

Cable nods.

 

“Sounds like photochromism. Bragg reflection, maybe…oh, you know, I read about certain deep sea, bioluminescent fish armed with psychotropic venom, when injected into prey, circumvents hazard signals to the brain. Might explain the side effects.” 

 

Cable is impressed with Peter’s composure and knowledge, but of course, those traits are equally dubious.

Deadpool though, has no such misgivings. He can feel his guts liquefy and heart clench. He draws closer; ever the moth to Peter’s pretty flame but apparently it’s too close for the young scientist because he’s batted away briskly.

 

“Do you mind? I’m  _ science-ing _ , here.” Peter tuts, then bursts out laughing at Wade’s genuinely scolded look. 

 

And now Deadpool has to contemplate tearing the pumping, squirting organ from his rib cage but, oh right, that doesn’t actually  _ cure _ a broken heart, just shuts it up for a few hours until another one grows back, the wretched thing.

 

But his fingers itch, his brain itches and the voices warn him, something’s getting torn off, and if not a hunk of his own beating, love-struck flesh or a filthy limb from one those mercenaries outside, then…

 

He folds his mask over his mouth, his nose, his entire construction site of a face, puffing out a gust of relief.

 

“Sorry. Hot in here. You were saying, sweetheart?”

 

Peter hasn’t run. He looks from the beaker, to Wade’s roadmap of scars, manages to fake momentary shock, then lowers down his own polite mask of impassiveness.  

 

“Heat.” Peter repeats, licking his lips. An idea slithers from under the fog in his brain, coils up like a snake and strikes him behind the eyes. “Good idea. We should put this under heat. Under a light…a desk lamp should do it.” He peers around, finds just the thing and rigs up a warming station beneath a shady, bricked-up window.

 

Assembling the pieces, slower than necessary, he recaps. 

 

The first time he’d seen Deadpool’s entire face, the two of them were eating overstuffed burritos on a rain-slicked roof. A street performer dressed as a bumbling Hulk tripped and rolled over the curb, right below their gleefully swinging feet, ten stories up. Spider-Man’s laughter rang out like bells, his slim shoulders pressed companionably against Deadpool’s larger frame. He’d never actually lose his balance, but that human memory of course was there. When laughter squeezes all the oxygen out and everything goes limp.

 

Wade favored Spider-man with a look of awe, like he’d never seen him before and in a way he hadn’t, not like this, compromised with laughter, weakened in a preciously rare and beautiful way.

 

He shucked his mask off. It was that, or blurt out something deeply stupid.

And now, he’s done the same, and Peter is confused, working through the differences in these scenarios, which to him are innumerable. But the stalling is becoming obvious and there’s no time to figure it out.

 

Peter pulls the beaded switch and the bulb glows bright, white and hot over the vial. He stands back, hand propped under his chin as Deadpool approaches with a low whistle.

 

“Nice going. How long?”

 

“I dunno, half hour?” Peter offers. “Hard to know at face value.”

 

“Sort of like you,” Wade points out. Peter is steered to the back of the room where a ripped, lumpy couch lives, pressed against a wall. They maneuver around a glass coffee table and sink in.

 

Peter’s laugh is uneasy and his fingers itch around his knees. “I thought we were past interrogation.”

 

Deadpool grins with discolored lips but his smile is brilliant, his face close and warm. He’s all scars, but the injuries haven’t dimmed any lines of expression, the curl of his mouth and certainly not the playful squint of his eyes. His wounds look aged, tightly knit and part of his geography, not raw and new and painful as they sometimes seemed. 

 

Wade’s arm is strong around him and his voice is definitely deeper than usual. Peter squirms, there’s no doubt this is weird but he’s fine where he is. Wade’s charm is a bulldozer and it feels good to be small and scooped up. 

 

“Just getting to know you, what makes you tick, all that jazz. On the subway, you were working on a project?”

 

Surprised he remembered, but honestly not all that keen on talking about it, Peter gently corrects.

 

“Presentation.”

 

“Oh, excuse me:  _ presentation _ .”

 

“To the board of cognitive science at MIT-“ Peter begins, but decides not to bore with such braggart details, so the conversation is steered back into simple, flirtatious waters.

 

“You really don’t have to pretend you care. It’s pretty boring stuff,” he says, and Wade’s about to protest when he continues.

 

“This is when you say what  _ you’re _ afraid of, to comfort me. By the way.”

 

“Is that your subtle way of suggesting we move this along? Because I can think of better ways to  _ comfort _ you, hot stuff.”

 

“No, I actually want to know. I’ll go down the list if I have to. The dark?”

 

“Lights on, lights off, however you want-”

 

“How about flying?”

 

“Like I said. A TSA-style cavity search is still  _ very much _ on the table, or on the couch, as it were-“

 

Peter grins, tries again, this one very daring indeed. “Its  _ spiders _ , I’ll bet.”

 

“Oh.” Deadpool pauses dramatically, clutches his chest and pretends to reel. “No, I  _ adore _ those little suckers.”

 

“Uh huh. I’ve heard.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“What  _ else _ would we gossip about at Stark Tower?” Peter gestures airily. “Is Captain America a ninety year old virgin? Does Black Widow bite the heads off her suitors? And Hawkeye…come on, that haircut? Totally hiding male pattern baldness.”

 

“That’s disappointing.” Deadpool taps his chin. “What about cat-fights? All those nubile young interns in one place. There must be arguments over who Stark is sticking his Mark eight into that week, who he’s spoiling with the best gifts. Light slapping, ripping off clothes, that sort of thing….am I close?”

 

Peter shrugs, coyly. “The NDA every Stark employee signs-“

 

“Uh huh...”

 

“- does not permit me to confirm nor deny-”

 

“-The diamond-studded Rolex you got for Christmas last year, yeah, I gotcha.”

 

Peter laughs, cheeks turning pink, because truth be told he’s always had a bit of a crush on Tony Stark. Nevertheless: “Not in this lifetime. I can’t even imagine-”

 

“I can.” Wade shifts in his seat, and somehow grows taller over him. “He brings you along on some kind of “business retreat,” but at the end of the night it’s back to his room. I definitely see him in one of those cheesy, Hugh Hefner robes. Glass of bourbon that’s older than you, in one hand. The other around your waist, like  _ this _ -“ He demonstrates, holding Peter close and urging him to look up.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Then Iron Santa unloads his sack: fancy new clothes, the newest tech,  _ a scholarship to MIT, perhaps? _ And presto. Another greedy little intern on his back, begging-” His breath is hot on Peter’s neck and the boy leans in with a hitch.

 

“Wade, please-“

 

“Yeah, like that.” Deadpool laughs against his skin.

 

Flustered at how almost-on-the-nose Wade is about his “arrangement” with Tony Stark, (everything but the sex, really) Peter pushes him away, with an edge of accusation. “I thought you were in love with Spider-Man.”

 

Wade blinks.

 

“We’re soulmates. He just hasn’t realized it yet.”

 

“Oh...” Peter bites his lip. “I’m…sorry.”

 

“He’ll come around. Or won’t. Either way, there’s room for you in my heart, don’t worry-“

 

“I’m …” Peter sputters. “That’s stupid. We’re not talking marriage, here.” Peter reaches out, flustered. He finds his hand drifting to the center of the man’s chest. “I can see your big…dumb heart just fine.”

 

Wade’s smile is warm and a little goofy. “That’s because my outsides look like my insides, babe.”

 

There’s a thump on the opposite end of the couch, startling them both.

 

“I’m sorry, but who the hell banters this much before fucking?”

 

Peter had forgotten Cable was there, to be honest. He’d also forgotten how big and bionic and  _ intense _ he is. He looks annoyed as hell, the opposite of Wade’s naked adoration. It summons a spike of hot arousal straight down to Peter’s groin.   

 

“Don’t mean to freak you out, kid. Just…are we doing this or what? Busy day, you know.”

 

Wade breathes in the scent of clean boy, a rushed squirt of hair gel and fruity pop of cherry licorice purchased at a subway newsstand, and the sound that comes out of him is hungry. “Read my mind  _ again _ , Nathan. What do you say, Petey?”

 

It’s clear what Peter’s after; you don’t show up to a candy store and ask the clerk for celery. The question is how much this kid can stomach – a scoop, a bag, the whole damn jar? That’s the rub, the space for a fatal miscalculation that can spell Peter running back to the safety of his library booth.

 

“Um...sure,” Peter says.

 

“We’re going to need a little more than that,” Cable insists. 

 

The line of decency is already threadbare, like the knees of Peter’s fraying jeans, the strap of his knotted backpack, taped headphone wire. “I want this,” the boy says, determined not to let his confidence fall apart the same way. “I’ve never…but, you know...”

 

Cable reassures him. “We’ll play it by ear.”

 

Peter takes a big visible gulp of air, lets it go with a small laugh.

 

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

 

He feels and sounds like a nervous teenager, sure, but that’s where normal comes to a screeching stop. This won’t be  _ A Night Under the Stars, _ with glittering streamers, rented spotlights and a punch bowl. Peter, dateless of course, left his own prom early to punch the lights out of some common criminals; a drug smuggling operation fronting as a limousine service, of all things.  

 

If learning to harness his sudden and frightening abilities had taught Peter anything, it was that sometimes there’s no precedent or way to prepare, no blueprints, and often no one in the world who understands.

 

Sometimes you have to break out the hammer and nail down your own damn milepost.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter reaches for Wade, presses his mouth and chest against his. The steady, exploring kiss is nothing like he’d imagined because for one thing, Spider-Man would never wind up in this position, with this man in particular. Masks slip off, emotions get in the way of duty and people get hurt. 

But there’s a freedom in being Peter. It’s new and surprising in a way he didn’t think ordinary things could ever be again. 

He crawls into Wade’s lap, bolstered by the fact he can leave without any consequence to his crime-fighting career, though the notion of tapping out seems a thousand miles away with Deadpool’s lips and tongue searching, his broad hands anchored on Peter’s hips.

Cable watches them. The boy is easily the sweetest treat they’d managed to wrangle into bed, it’s hard to believe it’s gone this well so far. He reaches out to see if those curls are as soft as they look. Peter responds to his touch with an eager whine and Wade pulls back to drink in pink lips and bright, blown-out eyes.

“Fuck.” He breathes, but savoring the moment comes at a cost. Cable uses the opportunity to turn Peter around and make his point clear.

_ You wanted this so damn bad, Wade, watch how it’s done. _

A lazy grin sprawls across Deadpool’s face. He misses Peter’s body and mouth but signed, sealed, delivered approval from Cable isn’t a bad thing to have.

Peter shifts against the larger man, brushes something huge.

“Is that?...oh.”

“You’re scaring the boy, Nate.” Deadpool nudges Peter back into his arms, thinking how ironic it would be if Peter left not because he blurted something untoward, but the trepidation of handling Cable’s size. Not that he wanted to actually see that happen.

“I’m okay.” Peter’s lying. His mouth is back on Wade’s to try and sell it. Cable is next to them, palming himself, and Wade’s hand is creeping down the back of Peter’s jeans, into the crease of his ass.

How could he possibly be okay?

Wade sees through it.

“You’re tense.” He says. 

“Can’t help it. I mean, your hand -” Peter admits. “Oh, god…” He whines, as the barest of pressure is applied to his opening, rubbing just around the puckered rim.

“When was your last meal?” Wade asks him.

“Why…” Peter, genius that he is, only takes a second to connect the dots.

“Oh, my god.” He buries his reddening face in his hands. “Are you asking…”

“How full is the tank?”

Peter’s emits a strained, unintelligible sound of mortification. He tears himself from Wade’s arms, grabs his backpack and high tails it to the tiny bathroom in the corner, slamming the door shut and causing a framed picture of a moose to skip off the wall and shatter. There’s a muffled “sorry!” from behind the door and a beat later, pipes rattle and a faucet hisses on full blast.

Cable pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you scare this one away, ‘Pool, I’m shoving  _ your ass _ in that test tube...”

“Peter’s fine.” Wade dismisses.

“So was that little blonde waiter last month. Totally into it, until you-“

“Bellhop.”

“ _ Bellhop _ , junior senator,  _ who gives a shit _ ? He was hot for it, when out of nowhere you decide to make that crack about mutant sperm and male pregnancy-“

“I thought it was funny.” Wade’s not really arguing. He looks somewhat contrite. 

“And I have to say it. The mask thing.” It sounds cruel, but they both know it. Admirers aren’t looking for a sideshow. They want a hard, notorious body bearing them down, vaguely menacing dirty talk in their ear and the icy brush of a gun against their skin while they take it deep. A rush cheaper than heroine and a story to take back to their friends.

Wade shrugs. “Something came over me.”

“Well nothing will be  _ coming over you _ if you keep pushing it. So keep the rest on, dick through your fly, you know the drill.”

“Roger that.”

“And Jesus Christ, stop talking about Spider-Man. No one wants to hear they’re a substitute. And that includes asking him to wear that goofy-”

“He’s the one who brought it up! And it’s not goofy-” 

Peter could hear up to a point, past the door and running water thanks to his enhanced senses, but now it’s becoming harder. Spider-sense or no Spider-sense, he is, after all, squatting and working wet digits in his ass. Peter has played with himself plenty of times in the privacy of his room, with slippery fingers and quiet toys so the motions aren’t foreign but this is another level. 

Every ten or so seconds of his absence prompts hissed accusations and blame hurled like bloated water-balloons snapping in the air. The doorknob clicks and everything quiets. Peter clears his throat, glances at the two men engaged in an aggressive stare down. His nerves peel away. The whole scene is alpha and ridiculous and begs to be interrupted, so he tosses his backpack to the floor, strolls between them like a small boat gliding through the towering sides of a split drawbridge. He’s back on the sofa and they follow.

Peter looks Wade up and down. “There’s blood on your suit.” He notes.

Wade blinks, pinches the fabric away from his chest, stares at it puzzled, then back at Peter.

“It’s gross.  _ Take it off _ .” The boy tells him.

“As my prince commands.” Wade breathes, wiggling out of the offending garment. “Skin-on-skin, the way nature intended!”

While he undresses, Peter makes his next move, deciding to turn and kiss Cable. His palms cling to broad shoulders like a rock cliff, having to boost himself to his knees to reach his destination. This leaves his back facing Wade, who pouts at becoming the third wheel in his own design.

Then again, watching Peter’s t-shirt ride up his back, exposing dimples, little cherries on top of a sweet fleshy shortcake, he remembers there’s no wrong way to eat a dessert. Peter’s definitely pushing his ass out, whether intentionally or not, and it’s all the prompting he needs to grab a fork and dig in.

Peter’s shirt comes off first, rolled up over his head, and oh what a shame, the act severs their kiss. Skin is exposed. Clean, unblemished, a stunning, muscular little body arching back against Wade, who kisses and sucks on Peter’s inviting neck. He’s not greedy, though, moving down his nape, his shoulder blade, the northern tip of his spine, so the two lovebirds can resume up front while he busies himself in the back.

_ “Enjoy it while it lasts,” _ Wade smirks against soft skin, knowing once his tongue unwraps that sweet confection, all Peter will be capable of is open-mouthed, whimpering pleas and Cable can just eat his heart out while Wade is feasting on something a lot better.

Though he can’t deny the sounds their mouths are making are inspiring his own path, down the tight muscled planes of Peter’s back, mimicry of what Cable’s doing against Peter’s mouth, jaw and neck. Cable isn’t talkative but the devouring noises he’s making are currently the most audible thing in the room.

Deadpool reaches the waistline of Peter’s jeans and underwear, tugging them down in a single move. Peter grabs Cable’s shoulders for balance as they’re slipped off his legs. The final twist over his ankles and feet brings him into a sitting position then thrown on his back, legs splayed apart.

“My turn.” Wade growls against his calf. He leans over Peter and takes his mouth, palms cupping the outside of his thighs.

Cable is fine with the switch. It gives him an opportunity to release the pressure on his straining length.  He can still taste Peter’s mouth as he pulls at the hot flesh and watches the two kiss furiously. In his mind, the boy is around him, wet heat from both ends. When they break apart to breathe, Peter takes notice of the monster throbbing beside his head with wide eyes.  

“Don’t worry.” Cable grits out, with a hint of disappointment, knowing how painful his full girth must look to the slight and inexperienced boy. “This won’t be going anywhere near your little ass.”

“ _ This _ will, though.” Deadpool grinds, slow, against Peter. “If you want it?”

“Yeah.” The boy breathes. “I do.”

“Gonna eat you out first.” He says, moving down to kiss Peter’s belly, his outer thigh. “Pull your legs up, rest your head against Cable, there, yeah…oh, fuck yes. Look at that.”

Peter’s dick is stiff and leaking against the defined plates of his taut abdomen and his opening is bared and blinking. Wade licks a finger and presses it smoothly into Peter’s rosy handiwork.

Peter arches his back and hisses. Though it’s far less than he’d done minutes ago, it’s Wade. It’s  _ Deadpool _ .

“ _ Good boy _ .” The man praises. He leans in, finds Peter’s length, licks a sloppy stripe up the side and mouths the sensitive head. The boy moans and tilts his hips, spreads his legs wider, as the older man fellates him, humming. When his mouth leaves his dick, the finger is also extracted and Peter, as expected, whines at the loss.

“Please…”

“I do love that sound.” Wade relishes.   

Cable’s fine with getting less. He’s been around enough and the view is awfully generous; Wade’s head bobbing between Peter’s legs, moving up and down as his tongue swipes beneath Peter’s balls, the bump of his perineum, and down, and down…

And of course, there’s Peter. Nothing like a pretty boy keening as he realizes he’s being slowly licked open, devoured, taken apart. Cable provides the fingers soothing his scalp, the helpful hand, propping open a leg, spreading him wide. He considers motioning for Peter to suck him, but takes his own advice and decides not to overwhelm the boy so soon. He’s clearly lost in sensation, head tossing in Cable’s lap.

“Oh,  _ god _ …”

Wade emerges from between his legs. “Nah, just a mortal man... well,  _ sort of _ .” Peter whines and thrashes below him. “Or…are you pretending I’m Thor? I’m very ok with that.”

“Uhgn…”

“You want to be Loki? That would be  _ so _ hot…”’

“I want….nnn….ugh!” Peter gripes incoherently, and even Cable can’t help but laugh.

“Well put.” Wade’s tongue starts spearing him deep, retreats, and dances on the overstimulated perimeter. Peter’s back arches, he moans so loud the entire bar must know  he’s being ravaged. Unrelenting, Wade follows the flitting spasms that warn he’s close.

“Ung, I’m...!”

Cable holds both legs open, freeing Wade to pump Peter’s organ and finish him. When he releases, its all over Wade’s hand and his own belly.

“ _ Stan Lee’s craggy balls _ .” Wade marvels at Peter’s tight, rippling abs, glimmering with fat globs of come. “M.I.T. boy who lives at the library, how’d you get so  _ ripped _ ?”

“Gymnastics.” Peter’s lie would have been badly delivered, if it weren’t perfectly normal for him to be breathless right now. “Ivy Leagues….need….extracurriculars.”

“Oh, shit.” Wade groans, “Well consider me your pommel horse, sweet thing.” He’s back between Peter’s legs and ruts for emphasis. Peter’s laugh turns muffled, morphs into moan inside Wade’s mouth as they kiss again.

Minutes ago Cable would have been seething at Wade’s pointless tongue-wagging, if that same tongue hadn’t wagged around Peter’s insides and left him a breathless, brainless mess. Though, it’s more than that. It’s like he’s one half of a friendly established rhythm, alternating speech bubbles in a colorful space drawn for them. Which doesn’t lend much to Peter’s case.

Not that it really matters, when the boy appears in his lap again, looking like a banquet. If he’s an agent, he deserves an employee of the month parking spot for his replica Hitler Volkswagen, and a raise, to buy...whatever the hell Hydra Agents do with disposable income. Combat boots? 

Deadpool is a different story. There’s no way that malicious intent has entered his mind, and no way it ever will. He’d take a sword through the middle and chant how perfect and graceful Peter’s form is as his guts are whisked into a frothy merengue. 

Cable’s not so convinced, not so blinded by the charms of a pretty boy, and come what may, he’s ready to do what’s necessary.  

“You want Cable to take a turn?” Deadpool asks.

The boy ducks his head, bites his lip with a minute nod.

“Then ask him.”

“Cable, will you...”

“Wait, say it like…”And the rest is whispered in Peter’s ear.

There’s a sharp little intake of breath. Dark lashes brush against soft cheeks. His pink smile curls and the boy leans in.

“Please, get my hole ready for Wade’s cock.”

“I said, for Wade’s  _ huge, magnificent _ cock, but close enough-“

Make that Employee of the Fucking _ Year _ . Cable takes Peter’s mouth in another sucking kiss, hand wrapped behind his neck.

“Alright, boy, time for the real stuff.” He growls. 

Wade whines. “Do you  _ have  _ to say it like that?” He sounds petulant, but cooperates as Peter is spun to face him. Anymore complaints die quickly when the boy begins nuzzling his crotch.  “Oh…great idea, Pete. There you go….yeah, get it wet.” Peter licks around the crown of his shaft, tasting the pearling liquid at the tip, licking his own lips to spread the taste around.

“Pretty soon, ahhhh, it’s going right up that sweet ass. Lift it up, just like that-show him.” Deadpool is pressing down on Peter’s lower back, urging his hindquarters up like an offering.

“So, Nate. We square?”

Peter moans as Cable grips his small cheeks in both hands, prying him apart. The stretch is arousing enough, but something about one side being clasped in warmth and the other shivering at the touch of cold metal makes his center flutter that much more.

Staring at the wet opening in front of him, all pink and excited, Cable grins. “All good, buddy. All good.” Then dives in for a taste.

Peter moans, loud and hot against Wade’s erection, as Cable’s tongue laves his tender flesh into another frenzy. While Deadpool operated in smaller, exploratory gestures, teasing responses out of him the same way he draws Spider-Man out of his shell with jokes and chatter, the other man aims to fully fuck him with his tongue, probably in lieu of any other way to penetrate. Oh wait, strike that; a thick finger glides in soon after his mouth retreats, impossibly agile for a digit so dense.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ .” Peter groans. “Ah, ffnnnfgh-” Again, with a fuller mouth. Cable’s finger crooks, finds Peter’s prostate and presses it like a game show buzzer,  _ ding ding ding _ . 

Wade leans back, guiding Peter’s head with one hand, admiring Cable’s technique of opening the boy’s ass with his finger, sliding out slow, licking back inside, and repeating the process until Peter is a quivering mess.

“Feel good?” Wade asks him.

“Uh...huh.” He mumbles, clutching the couch, as two fingers press deep and hit him just right. He shudders and loosens up, sucks the fingers in and swallows the organ in his mouth as deep as he can. If his eyes were open he’d see the two once again communicate something with a simple look. Apparently, Peter’s ready.

Feeling like a flapjack warmed on both sides, Peter is tossed on his back again and the first thing he hears is the crinkle of a condom wrapper.

“I want to finish in here.” Wade says, rolling the protection on with one hand, gliding a lubricated finger into Peter with the other.

Peter swallows with a thick throat, meets Wade’s gaze and nods. “Kay.”

“Lay back. Against him.” Peter’s back against Cable, a strange but better alternative to the questionable sofa. Wade uses his mouth everywhere it can reach, distracting the boy as his legs are lifted over his shoulders.

Deadpool takes his fine time teasing the rim of his hole, slowly working Peter up as much as he can. The boy doesn’t require this much prep though. He was aching and ready and full of sensory overload long before they came along.

Wade’s cock pushes a third of the way in. The strain isn’t much different from other momentous firsts Peter can remember. The first time he ran a mile without having to suck on an inhaler. When he crossed fifty push-ups without his abdomen feeling like someone had stomped on it.

There’s a burn to the stretch, and it feels like too much, until it doesn’t. Then too much is not nearly enough.

“You okay there?”

“Mmm…more.”

Wade is astonished. “Ok. Keep me posted on that.” Peter nods again and takes it inch by inch.

“Fuck.” Soon, there’s a ragged, masculine expletive licking into his ear, a rock hard six-pack pressed against his belly and a thick cock fully sheathed and pulsing inside his ass. Not Peter’s usual Sunday night, not Spider-Man’s either.

“Fuck-” Wade kisses him. “Perfect. Beautiful fucking boy-“ He’s rambling again but it’s not conscious, so Peter’s not going to tell him to shut up but he does need him to  _ move _ .

So Peter bucks, flexes inner muscles, and they all feel the effect. Wade gasps, gives the boy what he wants, more speed to his thrusts, and Cable, below them both, feels the shift in tempo, holds on to Peter tight as Deadpool bottoms out, over and over, into his small body. 

Far too quickly, because he’s a teenager and Wade is a deadshot in more ways than one, it isn’t long before Peter is coming, pulsing around the dick inside him, a millimeter shy of  _ too  _ tight.

Wade can feel it, too, and then some. Slim legs crunch his middle and there’s a little pop in his hip. A surprising strength bears him down, knocks out a winded laugh and squashes them chest-to-chest. The tugging around his cock intensifies and Peter cries, pleading in his ear so prettily, those minor pains are distant concerns.

Cable watches the boy lose himself, lamenting that it’s his own heavy palm and not a tight squirming boy squeezing around his length. On second thought, Peter seems to be handling Wade like a champ, meeting him thrust for thrust. The space surrounding his aura, a term Cable really hates using, is packed with intensity. For most, that leakage of consciousness is a vague and cloudy charge of emotions, like electrons circling an atom. Peter’s, though, is a crackling, white-hot corona. He wants it harder, and he wants more than just a physical release.

Cable’s petting the mussed, sweaty head in his lap, at the moment of Peter’s climax, when he sees that stamina and appetite is just the tip of the iceberg.

“Uh…Wade.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Mmm-sorry, Deadpool can’t come to the phone right -  _ ahhh _ \- ”

 

The little demon continues to writhe and squeeze, moving his body in all the right ways. Wade tries to prolong the moment but soon his head is dropping stiffly against Peter’s smooth chest as he releases into the condom with a groan. He moves up, to mouth below Peter’s ear and grimaces, as his sensitive flesh is constricted one last time, while Peter find his own completion and comes apart with a sweet and broken moan. 

 

“Holy shit.” Cable’s voice is somewhere, past all of the pleasure, all of Peter, off in the clouds. “Wade, you need to see this.”

 

Needless to say, Wade doesn’t. Peter’s skin smells too good and besides, his gymnast legs are a vice around his waist. 

 

Speaking of positions, after a brief recovery, Peter realizes the compromising one he’s now twisted into. 

 

Deadpool’s prick is soft and dormant in his ass, and his scarred face is nestled, content, on its way to a snoring nap, in the crook of his neck. Peter’s back is still plastered against Cable. 

 

The worrying part of this design are his hands, outstretched and adhered to the nearest surface, which in the case of his left is the wall, crumbling in a jagged outline beneath his palm, revealing grey concrete beneath (also crumbling.) And suctioned to his right is a coffee table, currently suspended two feet off the ground.

 

It falls to the floor, upside-down, shattering the glass top. 

 

“Whoa.” Deadpool pulls back at this, and Peter cries out. 

 

“The fuck is going on in there?” Comes a muffled voice outside the door, a moment later.

 

“We’re fine, Weasel!” Deadpool responds. “Say you’re fine, Pete.”

 

“I’m….I’m fine!” 

 

“That’s the boy I just fucked! He’s fine!”

 

“Ugh, Jesus Christ…” The voice mutters, plodding away.

 

Wade sits up.“ _ You _ did that?” He asks, pointing toward the upturned furniture. 

 

“Yeah. I did that.” Peter huffs, half heartedly kicking Wade in the clavicle. “Thanks for the warning, by the way.”

 

“Sorry, baby.” His partner apologizes, patting his flank. “Didn’t mean to  _ disengage _ so hastily but… _ wow _ , what a plot twist! You’re…”

 

Dragging himself upright, with the help of Cable’s hands encircling his biceps (with the intent to be supportive or restraining, he can’t be sure) Peter braces himself for the outing.

 

_ Spider-Man. _

 

“Enhanced.” Deadpool finishes, with a small laugh. He’s pulling the condom off and shaking his head. “Right? Makes sense, Stark hiring pretty little mutants. Nice to look at, and handy to have around.” He waves his hand, realizing he’s also waving around the pinched, glistening condom. He knots the end and chucks it into a waste can.

 

“Handy, yeah.”

 

“You must be In training? I mean, being so young and all...not that there’s anything novice about that strength. How much can you lift?”

 

Peter swallows. 

 

“Couple tons.” 

 

“Happy Birthday to me.” Wade whistles, then notices Peter’s discomfort. “Hey, everything okay? You wanna cuddle?”

 

Peter’s sigh is uneven. “I should have said something, before we...”

 

“No worries. I think my pelvis is dislocated but I’ve never come so hard in my life. Not a bad trade off. You should probably let non-enhanced partners know, though, unless you plan on driving them to the ER afterward.” Wade’s touching Peter’s cheek. “How was it for you? You don’t seem-.” 

 

“Wade.” Cable jerks his thumb “Look up.” For the first time, Wade notices the holes punched above them. 

 

“That’s new.”

 

“Peter tried to crawl off your dick and scale the wall. I guess you missed it.”

 

“Don’t, please-” Peter begs. There’s no enjoyment in making the boy so uncomfortable, but this has gone on long enough. Cable continues, past the boy’s desperate (and damn near convincing) doe eyes.

 

“Come on, man, do I have to spell it out?” 

 

“That’s...no, that’s not possible.” 

 

Peter struggles, opens his mouth and squeaks some non-words and turns pink.

 

Wade’s face is equally raw, endearingly bare. Now that the suggestion has been planted, it’s painfully clear how much he wants it to be true.

 

“...Baby Boy?” 

 

Peter bites his lip at the nickname that always makes him privately blush and grin under his mask, and nods.

 

Wade’s brain short circuits a little, so Cable fills in, unhanding Peter’s arms and slinging one of his own loosely round Peter’s midsection.

 

“Yes Wade, you just fucked Spider-Man. Make goo-goo eyes later. “Baby Boy” has a healing factor so I’m taking a turn.”

 

“But I’m not done gaping in astonishment.” Wade gapes, in astonishment.

 

“Go ahead, I don’t give a shit. Hand me a rubber.”

 

Without preamble, he maneuvers the boy until he’s beneath him. Peter gasps, as Cable sucks on his neck and wedges his dick between his cheeks, warming him up again.

 

Peter’s phone begins to rattle inside his backpack. Cable groans, fingers leaving white marks on wiggling hips, as he drags the swollen head of his cock across the slick and twitching hole.

 

“Cable, I need-I have to-ahhh, god, the phone.”

 

“Shit can go to voicemail.” Cable rumbles back, dipping his bulbous head half an inch into Peter’s heat. “Open up, boy.” 

 

Lounging back to watch, Deadpool laughs. “What a sweet-talker.”

 

Another ring.

 

“I really need to answer that-“ Peter squirms. 

 

And the giant man finds himself pinned down by someone half his size, on a couch that feels like it just sank in on itself a good three inches. The boy astride him slides off with enviable grace and scrambles over to his backpack.  

 

“Sorry May, had my ringer off.” Peter’s kneeling, flicking back sweaty curls and trying to sound composed. “I ran into someone from work and we grabbed lunch. Yeah…I had a nice time.” Peter is looking at Wade when he says this, smiles shyly and looks down. “We’re seeing a movie in a bit. I’ll be home later, no, not too late…oh, yeah, I got the allergy meds.” He cringes. “Ok. Love you too, May. Bye.” 

 

He hangs up, starts pulling his clothes together from their scattered spots on the floor.

 

“Errand. Totally forgot.” He explains in a rush. “Didn’t bring my suit so I gotta hurry.”

 

Wade coughs, reaches beneath the couch and pulls out a box. Inside, is the familiar spandex, looking a little worse for the wear.

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

“Remember that time we were chasing down the human traffickers and I told you that your backpack was lost in a dumpster fire?”

 

“You  _ stole _ my backup suit? To access Stark Tech? Wade, that’s -”

 

“No, no! Nothing like that.” Wade reassures. “I had this plan, take home a boy, convince him to wear it while I f-”

 

Peter snatches the clothing back. “Dude you are  _ so _ lucky Mister Stark uninstalled the Baby Monitor Protocol years ago.”

 

“Stark...used to record you?” 

 

“In the beginning, yeah.” Peter nods, nose wrinkling as he notes all the little imperfections in the suit.

 

Wade groans. “Forget my fantasy from before.  _ That’s  _ kinky as hell.”

 

As Peter is slipping the brightly colored suit into his bag, Cable observes:

 

“It’s not like you to be unprepared, Webs.” He could recall a dozen or more times Spider-Man sprung up out of nowhere, to help them out of a jam or say I told you so. “Where’ve you been lately?”

 

Peter sighs, and silence reigns while he shimmies into his underpants. The other two enjoy the view for a moment, then begin to struggle with their own complex garments and gear.

 

Peter stands, clothed in his civilian jeans and t-shirt, pulls the seat away from his sticky bottom with an awkward face.

 

“Stressed out about this presentation. Letting down Mister Stark.” He shrugs. “I’m worried I don’t know how to be... _ me _ , anymore, and I’m going to crash and burn. Just your standard identity crisis, times a  _ billion _ .”

 

Everyone is dressed now. Peter’s slinging his backpack over a shoulder and pouting at the floor.

 

Wade pulls him close, tips his chin.

 

“Well, granted I just met Peter….Parker, was it? And aside from being a little moody sometimes…I think he’s pretty  _ super _ .”

 

“So corny.” Peter stretches on his toes for a kiss that’s too sweet to be real, then pulls away with a curse: supporting evidence that of course it isn’t real, how could it be.

 

“What?” Wade panics, holding onto Peter like he’ll turn to dust at any moment. 

 

“The pharmacy closes early on Sundays.”

 

“Not a problem. Follow us. Pretend you’re a hooker.” Wade pulls his mask on, lands a fierce smack to Peter’s ass to urge him out the door.

 

“Surprised that boy can walk!” Someone shouts and laughter erupts, like the volcanic heat broken out on the surface of Peter’s cheeks.

 

“How much?” Laughs another.

 

They march through the bar, through an audience of leers, and one very angry tirade from the back of the bar.

 

“What the fuck did you do to this room!? Get your ass back here, Wade-!”

 

Peter only lifts his eyes from the ground when they finally exit. He’s flushed and beautiful in the sunlight and Wade notes the matching tinge of red in his cinnamon locks and blushing freckles along his nose.

 

The boy crosses his arms. “So, I came clean-”

 

“Mmm..twice if I recall.” 

 

“Can we just be normal? Superhero stuff. Fill me in-”

 

“Thought I already did.” Wade’s squeezes his ass, and Peter laughs, tries again.

 

“Really though. “Evil serum?” He air-quotes. “It’s all baloney, right? Just a made up rouse to get me back here?”

 

Turns out, it wasn’t. Cable explains: sure, the vial that Peter tinkered with was a fake (lukewarm Gatorade found in the trash, while Deadpool was searching him) but the real one, and the drug inside of it is very real and very dangerous. They were headed to the hospital before running into Peter, when the plan took a little detour.

 

“ _ Superhero stuff _ .” Wade grins. “Want in?” 

 

Peter nods eagerly, face fresh and glowing and Wade feels his heart somersault again, but this time he’s not tempted to rip it out and throw it to a pack of stray dogs.

 

“Let me suit up and stash my backpack.” Peter leads them ahead, into a shadowy alley, where he begins his usual routine. 

 

“I still think it’s possible that the color change and mind altering properties are derived from a predatory species of some kind. We do need a lab, though. Electrophoresis should rule out a fair amount of elements…” He stops, grumbles, pulls the seat of his pants away from his bottom again. “Ugh, how is my ass so  _ wet _ ...”

 

“Ready for round two?” Wade sounds hopeful.

 

“No way.” Peter clarifies, pressing the button that seals it tight to his body. The mask is over his head, to hide his blush, when he admits. “I may be enhanced but still, um….sore.”

 

Wade’s arm is around him again, around  _ Spider-Man _ .

 

“Good thing we’re about to raid a hospital drug supply closet. Just name your ointment, baby.”

 

“That’s the grossest thing you’ve said all day.” Peter spins away gracefully, webs an awning and flips over the top.

 

“Hey!” Wade jogs over, and Cable follows at an easier pace. “No romantic stroll?”

 

Peter lands in a neat crouch and cocks his head.

 

“Raincheck, sorry. I haven’t done this in  _ weeks, _ you know _. _ ”

 

Wade pouts. “Is it really  _ that _ good?”

 

“Well…I can officially confirm its better than sex. Which reminds me-” Peter teases, smoothly thwipping more web, higher up. “Might want to think about performance pills when we get there. You know, the kind that helps you old guys keep up!” His squat deepens, and before lifting off, he gives a parting cheer.

 

“Race you there!”

 

There’s the Spider-Man Cable knows. The swinging, smart-mouth brat who grates on his nerves almost as much as Wade does. They’re both staring at the spot in the sky where Peter spidered away, when he states the obvious.

 

“You’re in love with that little shit.”

 

“Hopelessly.” Wade confirms. “Uh...sorry you got cock-blocked, by the way. Again _. _ ”

 

Reminded of his awkward role as a glorified mattress, Cable stretches his back.

 

“Wasn’t your fault. Next time I’ll make him turn his damn phone off.”

 

Wade scoffs. “Next time. You know that Peter’s going to realize what a mistake this was, right? He didn’t want his identity revealed. For us to know. So yeah...go ahead and deposit this afternoon in the spank bank, because there won’t  _ be _ a next time.”

 

“There will.” 

 

Wade doesn’t respond, so Cable continues, sounding annoyed that he needs to explain.

 

“He cares about you too, idiot.”

 

“Funny.”

 

“His mind was wide open... practically threw itself at me.” He dismisses like it’s nothing, before Wade can thank him for the extra bolts and screws he may have sprouted for his trouble. 

 

“Now will you shut up and focus?”

 

“Wow…” Wade has a second short-circuit, then giddily realizes something. “So are we like…an item? Should I be more possessive about this?”

 

Cable shrugs. “Probably. I’ll let you ponder it on the subway, you know, where you brainstorm the best? I think that’s what you said.”

 

“Wait, hold up-“

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep your boy company ‘til you get there.”

 

“Hey!”

 

But Cable is already gone.

 

And he’s got their only MetroCard

 

Payback’s a real bitch.

END


End file.
